


A Stolen Glance

by Durrant



Series: The Perdita Series [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Hannibal, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Omega Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:08:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Durrant/pseuds/Durrant
Summary: Alpha Hannibal meets a fascinating FBI agent.





	

There was a faint smell to the young man opposite him. 

 

It was not a pleasant smell and it was made all the more offensive as Hannibal could not immediately place what was causing it. 

 

The man shifted in his seat, his back hunched awkwardly and one foot turned so sharply that the ankle almost looked broken. His hands were twisted haphazardly in his lap, and Hannibal could see the way they tremored. 

 

He’d had such high hopes when Benjamin had first come to him. So many of Hannibal’s patients were a disappointment to him but Benjamin, with his psychosis and depression and hallucinations, had seemed different. Previously undiagnosed psychosis was such a fascinating opportunity. He’d been prescribing Benjamin a placebo, telling him that they were an anti-psychotic, and he’d spent the last month watching and waiting and prodding Benjamin in just the right direction. 

 

Hannibal had had so many more plans for him, so many ways that he could be transformed into something truly beautiful. The truth had quickly become apparent to Hannibal; the boy was insipid. His psychosis was dull and pedestrian. Benjamin was a lump of clay that not even the most talented sculptor could fashion into art. Despite all of Hannibal’s nurturing, the boy was doomed to mediocrity.

 

Hannibal watched the boy’s trembling fingers for a few seconds, breathing in the silence and the subtle tang of sickness on his patient. No, not sickness. Hannibal paused, tilting his head in an effort to scent his patient properly without having to stand and get closer to him. The man smelled of over-ripe peaches, made sickly sweet by their own decay. Although his patient was painfully thin, Hannibal could smell the fat on him. 

 

While Benjamin rudely stared at the floor, Hannibal let one corner of his mouth curl up into a small, satisfied smile. He had made his diagnosis. 

 

Niemann-Pick disease, type c. 

 

It was a rare condition, one which was hardly ever diagnosed when it manifested later in life. Hannibal uncrossed his legs, giving himself over to his pride and pleasure at solving this intellectual puzzle. Of course, he would need to send Benjamin for a biopsy before making an official diagnosis. Hannibal weighed his options, debating whether or not he wanted Benjamin to know the truth. 

 

Hannibal put his fountain pen on the paper of his notepad, watching for a second as the ink flowed out, making a messy blue puddle on the thick paper. Blinking slowly, he tried to shake himself from his momentary stupor. Diagnosing Niemann-Pick’s type c was a cause for celebration. The news of a life-limiting disease might have a profound effect on Benjamin and Hannibal was curious to see if, once he knew how little time he had left, Benjamin might shake off some of his dullness. After all, to quote Lao Tzu, the flame that burns twice as bright, burns half as long; would the inverse be true for Benjamin? Would he burn twice as brightly once he found out that he would be dead soon.

 

With a barely hidden sigh, Hannibal began to write underneath the ink stain. It was a mundane shopping list of what he’d need to do next for Benjamin, stretching out over the next few months perhaps even years. He hesitated, trying to recapture that earlier sense of pride, but it had slipped away from him. He was too bored by Benjamin. 

 

Hannibal glanced at the clock. Ten more minutes before he could end the session. Benjamin’s mother would arrive to collect her son in five minutes. She would sit outside, waiting in her car until Benjamin limped out to meet her. Hannibal would go to his desk and make notes on the session that had just finished. There was a grim predictability to it all. Hannibal watched the second hand move around the clock face in small jerky steps with a wave of ennui. 

 

It was unprofessional to let his attention drift, yet Hannibal knew that Benjamin would not notice. He transported himself to the memory of the last opera that he had attended. Banned when it had first been published two hundred years ago, _Egric_ was still a controversial story; an omega fell in love with a beta and chose death rather than bond with an alpha. The performance that Hannibal had attended the previous week had been sublime and the memory of the music flowed through him. 

 

Egric’s final aria echoed through his mind, the singer’s voice had been beautiful as she sang her despair. Hannibal waited until the final note had died and then checked the clock. Benjamin’s time was finally up. 

 

“Benjamin,” Hannibal began, noting with annoyance that his patient didn’t so much as twitch in answer to Hannibal’s attempt to get his attention. His rudeness tipped Hannibal into making a decision. “Our time is up, however I’m going to schedule an appointment for you to see a colleague of mine in the next week or so.”

 

Benjamin shrugged, a little jerky movement, and got unsteadily to his feet. Hannibal rose smoothly, watching as his patient almost fall as his limbs betrayed him. He did not offer Benjamin any assistance. 

 

“I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to talk to any doctors,” Benjamin said spitefully. 

 

“You won’t have to speak to Dr Fleming, Benjamin. Not a single word,” Hannibal promised, adopting a reassuring tone. It was wasted on Benjamin, but Hannibal believed in keeping himself to a certain standard. 

 

After Benjamin left, Hannibal deviated from his routine. He stood by the window, watching as Benjamin walked slowly to his mother’s car. His gait was uneven and unsure. His mother gripped the steering wheel as he opened the car door and didn’t look at her son before driving away. It was an interesting snapshot of Benjamin’s family life, and he learned far more about Benjamin’s relationship with his mother in those seconds than he had in the past month. 

 

Perhaps he had been too ambitious with Benjamin, perhaps he would never be a work of art but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t try; he should be setting Benjamin’s sights on his parents. They were the ones who had given Benjamin the mutated genes that had caused his disorder. Even the most placid creature had an instinct for revenge. 

 

Hannibal frowned slightly at his own train of thought. He had no particular wish to push Benjamin to kill his parents; the notion was beneath him. It lacked creativity and imagination, but Benjamin had been such a waste of time, at least this would give him some amusement. 

 

His next patient had cancelled her appointment yesterday. She had given him twenty-three hours and forty minutes notice. It was rude, yet Hannibal couldn’t find it in himself to be offended. 

 

Andrea Polden was an elderly woman with a great many pet cats. When she’d first been referred to him, he had found her rather amusing. She was a petty sadist who liked to maintain a reputation of respectability. To her friends and neighbours she was a wealthy seventy year old who always had a home for a stray cat. In private, she liked to torture the poor creatures. She came to Hannibal once every two weeks without any intention of changing her ways. Hannibal was her audience, the one person that had to listen as she boasted about what she’d done. 

 

It was all becoming rather tedious. 

 

She’d cancelled this week’s session, saying that she would need to take a cat to the vet. Hannibal had no doubt that he would hear all the details of the cat’s injuries at her next session; the prospect did not excite him. 

 

He used his free time to straighten his office; taking his sketches from his desk drawer and preparing to organise them by piling them on the small table at the back of the office, pausing to look at his Wound Man. Ideally, he would frame the sketch and he allowed himself a sigh of regret as he put the picture at the bottom of the pile. It was such a shame that his own talent had no audience.

 

Hannibal heard the front door of his office open and close. Hesitant footsteps paced around his waiting room and, then, the squeak of leather as the newcomer sat down.

 

He wasn’t currently treating any patients who, he believed, would do anything so rash as turning up at his office without an appointment. Hannibal walked slowly to the door, his curiosity building. He opened his office door with a flourish, welcoming this interesting change in his routine. 

 

There was a young man sitting in his waiting room. He was, Hannibal noted dispassionately, a rather attractive man; dark curls over an angelic face. However, the man had shrunken into his chair, trying to make himself as small as possible. His pretty eyes slid over Hannibal quickly, not quite making eye contact. Hannibal would have assumed that it was a gesture of deference, but the man’s chin was tilted in an unmistakably defiant angle. Hannibal felt something deep within himself, some primal corner of his soul, bare its teeth. He wanted to punish this insolent man for his disrespect. 

 

It was so rare that anything in his day-to-day life stirred up such extreme emotions. Hannibal held onto the feeling, trying to analyse where it had come from, and what it was about this stranger that had caused it. 

 

“Dr Lecter? I, uh, I wondered if I could talk to you. I’m Special Agent Will Graham from the FBI. I was wondering if you could help me with a case we’re working on.”

 

Had he somehow, subconsciously, realized that this man was from the FBI? Was that the cause of his instant reaction?

 

“But, of course. Please,” Hannibal moved back only enough that the agent would have to angle himself to get past him through the doorway. “Do come in.”

 

He dismissed the notion; he hadn’t known Will Graham was FBI. No, entertaining an FBI agent was thrilling; an exciting intellectual game, that was totally at odds with his first reaction to the agent. His mind racing through the possibilities of why the slight man had come to see him. He breathed in the dull scent of suppressed skin as the agent struggled to avoid touching him. 

 

Graham looked around his office, his wide blue eyes drinking in Hannibal’s possessions. 

 

Once again, Hannibal felt that primal urge. He wanted to preen, he wanted the agent to see that he was a powerful man. This time Hannibal tamped the feeling down. As much as he believed in indulging his instincts, he needed to know what case Graham was working on. 

 

Graham’s face suddenly changed, clenching in an expression of pain. It was a beautiful sight, made all the more beautiful by how unexpected it was. Graham managed to smooth his face almost immediately, but Hannibal had seen it. Suffering made the agent’s face stunning; a flash of a Renaissance painting in the office where he’d been so bored. How full his lips looked in a pained grimace! How much bluer would those eyes look if they were glazed with tears? 

 

“I wanted to ask you about a man you might have treated when you were working as a physician.”

 

Of course, he’d known that the FBI had no actual evidence against him. If they had, they would not have sent this lone agent.

 

Hannibal put the image of Graham’s suffering from his mind; he would return to that later. For now, he wanted to know the reason for his pain. There didn’t seem to be any injury on him and Hannibal couldn’t detect the scent of blood on his guest.

“I haven’t practiced medicine in some time but, fortunately for you, I have a good memory,” he leaned forward, smiling cheerfully. It was an expression he’d seen years ago, on a father as he presented his young child with piece of candy. Hannibal had seen them in the street and been instantly struck by the usefulness of the man’s expression; part good-natured grin, part condescension with just a little touch of conspiratorial bonhomie. It was always an expression that worked well for him, reassuring whoever he used it on that he was trustworthy.

 

Graham fidgeted, moving his coat from one arm to the other and not even reacting to Hannibal’s charm. 

 

How strange to feel so wrong-footed; especially by someone who looked like he would lap up any positive attention. Gazing at the curious young man, Hannibal realized that Graham was still refusing to make eye contact. As he watched, Graham’s eyes slipped lower, almost as if he were staring at Hannibal’s crotch. Of course, Hannibal knew that he was considered an attractive man, but he was surprised that the agent’s interest was so obviously prurient.

 

In order to test his new theory, Hannibal settled himself behind his desk, moving slowly so that he could watch the way that Graham’s eyes followed him. As he lowered himself into his seat, his crotch finally hidden, Graham’s gaze skittered away. It was an amusing discovery. 

 

Hannibal carefully adopted a relaxed body language and tried to let his mannerisms put the agent at ease. 

 

“Please,” Hannibal gestured for Graham to sit down. The agent sat slowly, awkwardly depositing himself on the very edge of the seat. It could have been nerves that would make the man act so strangely, but Hannibal doubted it. 

 

He smiled to himself; the way that the man was perched made Hannibal think that his buttocks must hurt. For a brief second, Hannibal amused himself, thinking of the FBI agents that were investigating him falling on their asses. It was a juvenile thought. What if Graham’s injuries had been inflicted in a far less innocent way?

 

Perhaps Graham was part of the BDSM community? He imagined Graham, huddled over his dominant’s knee and being spanked for being a naughty boy. 

 

That thought was less amusing than he’d expected. 

 

“Jeremy Olmstead,” Graham said, his voice had a breathy quality, as if he was still in pain. It was a pleasant sound. 

 

Hannibal didn’t let a trace of the surprise he felt show on his face. What an intelligent man Graham was, to link Hannibal to Olmstead. He feigned a display of embarrassment at the perceived failure of his memory.

 

“Perhaps not so good a memory after all. I don’t recall a patient with that name, but it sounds familiar.”

 

“He was the latest victim of the Chesapeake Ripper.”

 

There was something profoundly satisfying about hearing that epithet spoken out loud in his own office. He let the name hang in the air, the words taking on their own shape as he enjoyed the stillness of the moment. 

 

Graham shuffled, in obvious discomfort, in his seat; ruining the heady thrill of the moment as he distracted Hannibal. This time Graham was not beautiful in his agony, he was merely a nuisance. 

 

“That's why he sounds familiar, it was all over the news,” Hannibal said, striking a tone of mild curiosity.

 

“He was in a hunting accident, five years ago. He fell out of a tree-blind, stuck an arrow through his thigh. You were working in the ER when he came in.”

 

Hannibal remembered Olmstead clearly; such an obnoxious little man. At the time Hannibal had thought he’d looked incomplete with only one arrow sticking out of him. Turning Olmstead into the Wound Man had been the obvious way to display him. It had almost been a shame to waste such example of medieval elegance on a pig like Olmstead, but life was often unjust. He let his eyebrows rise in surprise at hearing that he’d ever come into contact with Olmstead.

 

“I was?”

 

Graham’s gaze was fixed on his face now, still not meeting his eyes, but hovering around his mouth and chin.

 

“I got your name from the admission log.”

 

Hannibal didn’t let his admiration show. What a clever little beta Graham was. Perhaps, unfortunately, a little too clever for his own good. Disposing of the agent might present a risk. He might have told his colleagues where he was going this afternoon. Except, this line of inquiry would have been a long shot. Graham had come here by himself, which meant that his colleagues hadn’t thought it worth looking into. The Bureau hadn’t thought that he was in any danger. Graham would be working from a long list of staff who had been working in the ER that night. Still, if he were to disappear then there was a risk that suspicion would fall on Hannibal. 

 

It galled him to have to let the beta go, but Graham had no proof. Hannibal’s best defense was to rely on the stupidity of the FBI. They had obviously dismissed Graham’s approach; he had to rely on them continuing to do so. 

 

“Let me think. You’ll have to forgive me,” Hannibal paused. No, even if he had decided to dispose of Graham, he would not want to kill the young man. Graham was not a pig to be slaughtered; he was an intelligent man who deserved to keep his dignity. Hannibal had always been curious about the effects of long term isolation on the human mind: Graham would have made an excellent candidate for his experiments. Hannibal dismissed the thought and continued talking; dragging out the information he gave so that he could watch the eagerness on Graham’s face.  
“I saw so many people in the ER - but not so many hunters. I do vaguely recall a gentleman with an arrow wound. It was an unusual accident. I seem to remember he was brought in by a fellow hunter, but little else.”

 

Graham stood with a look of disappointment on his face. His feet didn’t seem able to support his wait and he stumbled heavily, as if his pain had come on suddenly. If he left now then Hannibal would never learn the cause of that pain. Even more importantly, if Graham left now then Hannibal might never have another chance to analysis his own, curious, initial reaction to the beta. 

 

“I did keep detailed journals during those days. If you like, I can get them for you. Maybe you’ll find something helpful,” Hannibal threw out, knowing that the temptation of his journals would make Graham stay longer. 

 

“That’d be great,” Graham gave a small relieved smile. It was an unexpected expression. It was clear that Graham was a beautiful man, but his smile made him look radiant. How strange that such a clever and pretty boy had decided to make a career working for the FBI. What was it that had driven Graham to this?

 

“If you’ll wait, I’ll be right back,” Hannibal stood, surprised at his own disappointment when Graham looked down at the floor rather than turn his admiring eyes back to Hannibal and his crotch. He pondered this new found emotion as he climbed the ladder up to his book shelves.

 

The journal itself would be incomprehensible to Graham, but it was a convenient way of contriving a second meeting. Hannibal glanced down and saw that Graham had not kept still in his absence. The beta had given the impression that he was shy and unassuming, but now he was wondering about Hannibal’s office as if the place belonged to him. It was a surprising deviation from the behavior that Hannibal had expected. 

 

Graham began to rifle through his sketches, rustling the papers. It was inevitable that he would see the sketch of the Wound Man. A clever man like Graham would know exactly what that sketch meant. 

 

It was such a shame that someone who could pique Hannibal’s interest had found out the truth. Or perhaps, Hannibal thought as he slipped off his shoes, Graham had been able to find out that he was the Ripper for the same reasons that he was so interesting to Hannibal. 

 

At least this way he would be able to spend more time with Graham. He climbed silently down the ladder and padded across the floor. They would have years together now. Graham slowly slipping into madness while Hannibal ran his experiments on him. It might actually be very pleasant to have someone like Graham become dependent on him. He would be the only person that Graham knew, ever again; he would become the beta’s world. It was a surprisingly satisfying thought.

 

Graham gasped, no doubt as he saw the Wound Man and drew his inevitable conclusions. 

 

Hannibal was on him before Graham had even understood the danger he was in. There was an intimacy to moments like these; he pressed Graham against him, enfolding him within his grasp. There was something about the way Graham fit into his arms that felt odd. The agent was thinner than his shabby clothes had made him appear. Graham felt more like a lover than prey. Hannibal’s arm pressed into Graham’s throat, cutting off his breath as his mouth lowered to Graham’s pale neck. This position should have been a mockery of a lover’s embrace, yet he felt arousal stir within him. Graham’s dark curls kissed his cheek.

 

He’d never found killing to be sexually invigorating; he wouldn’t think of one of his victims as a potential sexual partner, in the same way as it never occurred to him to sexualise any other species that found its way onto his supper plate. 

 

Why was Graham so different? What had his body known, from the very first second that Hannibal had seen him?

 

Graham was pliant in his arms. For a moment Hannibal assumed that the agent had simply accepted his fate and was prepared for his death. Then Graham surprised him again. Instead of trying to escape Hannibal’s embrace, Graham pushed back into in. His buttocks pushed back against Hannibal’s crotch, rubbing at him as if he were an omega presenting to his mate. 

 

Then the creature in his arms let out a desperate noise, an inhuman beseeching plea, although Hannibal wasn’t sure what he was asking for. This was not a request for mercy. Graham was trying to rub himself against Hannibal’s crotch. He could do little more than bounce awkwardly, but it was enough to make Hannibal finally understand in one dazzling moment of truth. 

 

Graham’s behavior resembled an omega because he was one. Hannibal clutched the omega tighter. How perverse fate was that just as he found an omega, the most prized of social symbols, he would be forced to destroy his newfound posession. 

 

The omega pushed his neck against Hannibal’s forearm with the self-destructive instinct to be marked by his alpha. How had this omega made a career for himself at the FBI? Why had he? Hannibal burned with curiosity. He would be losing such a fascinating specimen. The depth of his own regret astounded him. He glanced up, understanding now why he’d been so fiercely attracted to this young man. He wanted one last glimpse of Graham before his capture irrevocably changed him. Graham’s eyes were looking up, staring at the ceiling blankly, although he had not yet been deprived of oxygen for long enough that cerebral hypoxia would have set in. 

 

No, whatever the source of Graham’s state, it was more than just Hannibal. 

 

There wasn’t a suppressant on the market that would completely stop an omega’s heat. However there were some that could reduce a heat to an infertile approximation of it. This was the reason for Graham’s earlier pain. He had been feeling the spasms of his heat. 

 

Hannibal’s heart lurched. What if the omega hadn’t seen his sketch? What if that gasp had merely been a result of a heat spasm? He had to find out before the omega passed out. 

 

His usually restless mind calmed, focusing on a memory that Hannibal had locked away years ago. It had been a summer’s day, and Hannibal had been so young that the details seemed to blur: the brightness of the sun and the greenness of the leaves in the garden . He remembered pressing his face into his dam’s neck, smelling that sweet omegan perfume that, back then, had meant only safety and love. His father had just told him that his dam was pregnant, having to explain to the young Hannibal what that meant; that he was going to have a sibling. He’d been so jealous at the thought of sharing his dam’s affection. The feelings had overwhelmed his little body, making him cry and shake. His dam had picked him up, holding him close; as close as Will Graham was to him now. 

 

He relaxed his grip on Graham’s throat, disconcerted by the sudden memory. He’d locked that memory away, deep in the cellars of his mind palace, decades ago. Yet, Graham had made it slip out.

 

The skin of Graham’s neck was red and there was a possibility it would bruise. Hannibal hoped that it would, that there would be some mark on the omega’s body of their first encounter, no matter what happened next.

 

Supposing that Graham hadn’t seen the sketch, and that Hannibal wasn’t going to be forced to attack him again, what would Hannibal do with an omega? It would be easy enough to claim Graham now. In the position they were in now it would be simplicity itself. 

 

He could go home tonight with an omega on his arm. He let his imagination spool out, picturing what that life would be like. Tonight and for the rest of Graham’s life. 

 

Hannibal could picture it clearly. He would throw a dinner party to celebrate his, their, bonding. Graham would be coy and demure, but Hannibal would not allow him to use scent suppressants. Every one of his guests would be able to scent his bonded omega. He would revel in their envy. And, as an added delight, once they bonded, Graham would smell slightly of his alpha. All Hannibal’s guests would be able to smell Hannibal’s own scent. He hated having to take scent suppressants, but they were a necessity, for an alpha, to fit into American society; however, if his omega smelled of him, then no-one would dare complain. It would be delightfully perverse. 

 

And then, there would be the morning after, and the day after that, and the day after that. Days stretching into months of Hannibal having to be careful in his own home. He’d have to offer excuses about where he went whenever he stalked a victim. He’d have to forbid the omega from entering the basement, and make sure the door was always locked. All his butchering would have to be done in the basement. And then there was the omega himself: every meal would be spent with this stranger. He seemed interesting enough, but Hannibal knew from bitter experience that few people remained interesting. Graham would eventually bore him. He could taste the tedium of it already.

 

Naturally, Graham would die tragically young. His alpha would not be suspected. Hannibal would be prostrate with grief. A year from now, all of Baltimore would know that he’d owned an omega. It would be satisfactory, but it was not what Hannibal wanted. He didn’t need an omega for social status, however much he would enjoy the envy of others. 

 

Here was an omega who must have spent his entire adult life hiding his designation. How much more perfect would it be if Hannibal could convince the omega to give himself, freely, to Hannibal. That would be the sweetest of victories. 

 

His mind made up, he pressed a kiss into his omega’s curls. It might be a while before he would have another chance to kiss him, but for Hannibal this chaste kiss cemented their union. The omega would be his mate.

 

Even if it became obvious that Graham had seen the sketch, and Hannibal had to take the necessary next steps, he would still bond with this delightful creature. He sniffed his new mate’s hair. There was none of the typical omega sweetness. That had all been suppressed away. It didn’t matter for now, very soon he would have his mate off those ugly drugs. Now he smelled the acrid tang of cheap, over brewed coffee and underneath that there was the stuffy scent of too many people crammed into a office. 

 

“I apologise. Please, forgive me,” Hannibal bent, pushing the omega over the table so that his buttocks were in a classic lordosis position, and pushed his pile of sketches onto the floor. The Wound Man fluttered away, hidden in the mess of papers and tucked away from prying eyes. “I have never met an omega before. I didn't realize it would be quite so overwhelming.”

 

It was a glib excuse. Of course, he had met omegas before but it was an easily accepted lie and, by the time the omega realized it was a lie, it would be far too late to do anything about it. Graham relaxed in his grasp. Under his hand, Hannibal could feel the wild beating of his omega’s heart. He was such beautiful little stray. How alone he must have been over the years! How useful that would be for Hannibal. 

 

Hannibal waited, letting the omega catch his breath. His fingers looked so large as they traced along the omega’s neck. He could feel the bonding gland just below the skin. The muliebriac gland was swollen and unperforated; the omega had never been bonded. 

 

Graham coughed, trying to talk before his throat had recovered from the strength of Hannibal’s grip. 

 

It was fascinating how quickly the omega could bring out Hannibal’s baser instincts. He had an urge to cover his omega’s mouth with his hand and hush him in order to prevent Graham from hurting himself by trying to talk. 

 

It was an unfortunate necessity that he had to step back and let the omega stand, leaving behind the welcoming warmth of his mate’s body underneath him. Tempering that was a thrill of exhilaration; he was going to have such fun courting his omega. The air itself hung heavy with Hannibal’s anticipation.


End file.
